


Rex Regum

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Midnight City - Freeform, Suicide, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>King of kings.</em><br/> </p><p>(I wrote this to make Ink sad.  PLEASE MIND THE TAGS.  Also I apologize.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rex Regum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkSkratches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSkratches/gifts).



So in the end, after a couple weeks of not responding to your messages, Latula files a fucking restraining order.    
  
Your stomach twists when you're notified - hot and sick with anger.  You snarl, you seethe, you hurt in the pit of your stomach.  
  
Not getting what you want - being iced like that - fucking sucks, but you forget about it pretty quick after you pay Deuce to fuck Captor up.  Nothing quite like a good revenge; and as for your wounded feelings, you get wasted on Jack Daniels for a week, chain smoke until you vomit, and then shrug it off.  At first there's a clench in the pit of your stomach; it dissolves into a slow, glossy calm.  Why get mad when you can get even?  
  
Like - it's not the first time you've hired muscle, and it ain't worth getting your hands dirty, so you just shove the money at Deuce and put it out of your mind.  The price is a little steep - Lord Ampora the Second cut your allowance again, the cheap fuckin' bastard, so you have to wait on it - but Clubs gets shit done.  He's a goddamn professional.  
  
She starts leaving you messages on your answering machine a few weeks later, and you delete most of them without playing them back.  You can't call her back without getting in legal trouble, anyway - stupid fucking bitch.  
  
It's December when Kingpin Records finally lets you know you got the deal.  They tell you they want to release the album next summer.  Lots of shit to do between now and then - PR, post-production editing, maybe record a few more tracks if the suits take issue with the shit you already sent in.  In the meantime, they send you a fat check, a stack of documents to sign, and they want you to meet some people.  Shake some hands.  Smile for pictures.  Pointless shit.  
  
You slowly rip the envelope into smaller and smaller squares, and wait for the news to make you happy.    
  
On a mental level you register that this is a victory.  There should be a rush, right? You've succeeded at something.  You're supposed to feel good. But there's just - nothing. Like high school, like sex.  Big build-up, great expectations.  No finish.  One more slow, moldering disappointment.  A tension that fades into a smoothed-over, black ice apathy.  Nothing happens.  
  
And - it doesn't really bother you anymore.  
  
Sometimes you feel like everything about your life is wasted time - like you missed a flight, and you're stuck in an airport, forever, where nothing ever happens and you never get to fucking go anywhere, and you feel that way regardless of what happens to you.  Prom king, high school star, record deal at twenty-two.  None of it touches you.  Nobody else touches you, either - you fuck them, you fight them, you trample them into the dirt, and it doesn't leave a dent on you.  Other people might as well be on another planet.  
  
You guess, somewhere along the line, you stopped waiting for something to happen.  
  
Because you figure this isn't a universe where magical shit happens to the good guys, this isn't the kind of world where the meek inherit the earth. The world isn't a fucking fantasy story with rules and a lesson at the end.  Magic ain't real, wishes don't count for shit.  This is a universe with shopping receipts, rush-hour traffic, landfills, and an infinite list of practical concerns.    
  
And you got a few new items of practical concern to deal with.  You're gonna move out of this shitty neighborhood and somewhere nicer - not that anywhere in Midnight City is nice, but you're done slumming in a whitewashed roach motel.  There are people to piss off with the good news.  You've gotta call up your old man and rub it in his face, for a start.  
  
When you stroll up to the Spade Street garage roof, lighting up your third menthol and mulling shit over, you're a little surprised to see Captor.  He lives a few blocks away, but scuttlebutt says he's too fucked up to find his way out of a paper bag, most of the time.  Deuce got him wrecked on something and duct taped him to a urinal in a basement, or some shit like that - you didn't want the details, you just wanted results.  
  
He's scaled the chain link fence, bare hands and feet, no coat.  It's just about zero Celsius.  The wind picks his shirt up a little.    
  
You see some ugly scabs, and protruding bones; he's not wearing the helmet Latula gave him, so you get to see the shaved-animal look of his nearly bald head, see the weals of stitches. You guess he got pretty roughed up.    
  
That makes you kind of pleased with yourself - not happy, really, but pleased.  
  
"Hey," he calls out, staring directly at you.  
  
In one of the tedious three-AM messages on your answering machine Latula told you they had a lot riding on his scholarship - they had a lot riding on some job offers, they're in trouble, they can't pay for his hospital bills.  It gratified you.  They hurt you and you struck back where it'd hurt them the most - Captor's grey matter.  You paid for some old-fashioned brain damage. You tuned out the crying, and focused on the pleasant knowledge that Deuce delivered.    
  
She said he was out of his mind most days, but Captor is incredibly clear-eyed right now.  Seems pretty lucid.  
  
Against the backdrop of cement buildings and gray iron walls his faded shirt and fraying jeans look colorful by contrast.  You wonder how long it took him to climb up there - how many attempts were interrupted by the twitching, the miniseizures.  Latula says he has one every day.  You told her your answer hadn't changed, and to stop fuckin' calling you.  She's gettin' kinda tiresome - you dunno what you ever saw in her.  Maybe you'll change your number after you move.  
  
Captor opens his mouth.  
  
"Damara s-s-said, once, she said, we were all stuck.  Wrong universe.  I thought.  I thought, I thought she - fuck - thought I could, get out anyway."  His teeth are chattering; he grimaces, for a minute, and the shaking stops.  
  
Damara, who the fuck is - right, the slut from high school.  You remember you got high and fucked once, and she told you some weird stuff afterwards - past lives, reincarnation, spooky goth bullshit.  Stupid teenage nonsense.  
  
You vaguely wonder what happened to everyone.  The sky is very blue.  You exhale smoke and you remember, when you were little, and it was this cold, you'd pretend with your breath.  The real thing is better.  Burns the back of your throat, tickles your lungs.  It hurts, a little, but it's real.  
  
"So what the fuck are you supposed to be doing, Mitts?" you ask, taking a long drag.  You'd better clear out, soon.  Restraining order, and all.  
  
The look on his face is weird - kinda disturbing.  It kind of creeps you out, how wide his eyes are.  Like an animal in a corner, minus the fear.  He's looked like that for a while, and normally the caged-rat look would get you going, but - right now you just feel blank.  
  
He's gripping the barbed wire with his bare hands.  
  
"There was only ever one exit," he says, and he sounds just like he used to, brilliant and sad.  
  
He spreads his arms, and dives.  
  
A second or two later you hear a tremendous crack, and a noise like a wet bag splitting open.  
  
You finish your cigarette and debate whether you feel like lighting up another one - there's only three left in the pack and you typically go through that many in one sitting, so, you'd better save them for later.  Maybe send Eridan out to get you more.  You're planning on finishing up another track today - the university is still letting you use their equipment for free.  Soon you won't need to ask them to reserve it for you - you'll have a whole fucking studio.  You wish you were more excited about that, but you guess you can't have everything.  
  
After a while you put the pack away and tuck your lighter into your pocket, and out of curiosity you wander over to the side of the building some crazy fucker just jumped from.  
  
His guts and blood are spread out on the sidewalk in a crazy blur of pink intestines, grey brains, yellow fat, raw red muscles.  Someone across the street is staring, frozen.  A car has stopped.  
  
You've never seen a dead body before.  Not, like, in real life.    
  
...  You sorta expected there to be more blood.  
  
... God.  
  
You are just so fucking _bored_ with everything.  
  
In a numb detached way you're starting to get the feeling that you're always going to be.


End file.
